


For A Moment

by liveandlove1989



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/F, Roleplay, mature content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 23:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19160929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liveandlove1989/pseuds/liveandlove1989
Summary: She smiles and you lose whatever breath you'd started to take. "You look lonely," and her tone makes your skin bristle because it's melodic in a way that sets the alcohol in your veins on fire. You offer her your best lopsided grin. "Maybe. You got a way to remedy that?" FemShep x Liara, rated for mature situations





	For A Moment

She smiles and you lose whatever breath you'd started to take. It's not even for you - she's talking to the bartender and you're three stools down and drowning your own sorrows - but just the sheer illumination of it makes you feel like she could light up the entire citadel with that sort of expression.You've never been big on aliens, but the fact that she's an Asari barely registers as she orders something you can't hear over the sound of the thrumming soundtrack and sits down. She's a catch, that's for sure.

With a tight ankle length dress that is more modest than the majority of people in here but still shows off the soft curves she harbors. Markings that look like freckles and dance with the swaying lights, full lips that slip effortlessly into a casual sort of simper. Not as brilliant as her toothy grin but just as grounding.Her eyes sweep across the other patrons with a lazy sort of interest, taking in those that are either drunk or courageous or enough of both to get out on the dance floor. Then they land on you. And you nearly choke on the whiskey you'd taken a shot of because holy hell, everything about her is blue but those eyes... They're what you imagine would result in plucking two marble size pieces of the sky at dusk would look like. Dark but enchanting, calling. Playful in the way she bats her lashes and dips her head down as if shy.

Maybe she really is. Maybe it's a just a ploy. Either way, it does something to you that the liquor hasn't managed to do all night, flips your stomach and pushes whatever it was you were trying to smother out of mind. You wonder if you're sober enough to impress her or drunk enough to try.

And then in sweeps someone else. A young boy that looks new and in awe. He has a twisted bottle in his hand that could hold any of the menus poisons, holds himself like a recruit right out of boot camp. He slips into the stool next to her and you find yourself frowning, look away because, really, that isn't that unexpected. Human boys go for Asari like they're forbidden fruit.

You focus back on your drink and forfeit the shot glass, instead taking the bottle and chugging. It burns like a small fire in the back of your throat but you ignore that. Figure a little pain will help you heal in the long run. Besides, you've got a ship to catch in the morning and you don't have time to coddle a woman you don't know. Best to get back to your apartment and try to get some sleep. Regardless of how little you know will actually come.

It's only when the bottle's empty that you slap it back onto the bar's counter, watch it teeter a moment, silent beneath the music. Figure now's as good a time as any. So you look up and press your palms to the countertop, but then your eyes hone in on the space the Asari had occupied and all you find are empty seats. You can't fight the scoff. Figures. She gets a fun night and he gets something to gloat about to his friends come deployment.

Only -.

A figure slips into the seat next to you, quiet and shadowed because the light doesn't quite reach this corner. But when your curiosity is peaked and you look and it's her - you know, because those eyes are endless obsidian as they smile at you, lips upturned and something not so naive playing across her soft features.

You think you choke. If she notices, she doesn't comment. Simply holds up her glass of something pink and swirling and watches you over the edge as she sips at it. You watch the way her lips move across the rim and unintentionally whine. Good thing the music's too loud for her to have heard that.

"You look lonely," she comments, and it's cool and collected and her tone makes your skin bristle because it's melodic in a way that sets the alcohol in your veins on fire.

You offer her your best lopsided grin, tap the counter with your index finger and make sure to keep her gaze. "Maybe. You got a way to remedy that?"

It's bad. That was a stupid thing to say. You sound like one of those cocky recruits and you know it. That's not your style, doesn't fit right in your mouth, but she laughs. She laughs and maybe it does fit right, if she's into it. You can be stupid if that's what she wants tonight.

The corners of her eyes crinkle when she laughs. So does her nose, and it's so cute that maybe she's not just beautiful. You think that she's also intimidating, because no one this innocent looking could really be so innocent. You think you've misjudged, and that's scary.

"Maybe we share a drink and see where it goes," she answers evenly, and her tongue dips out to trace along the rim of her glass. You hone in on it like looking through a sniper scope. Then take in that when she smiles, which she hasn't stopped doing, there are dimples along her cheeks. Her skin is flush with something that has nothing to do with the booze and you award yourself a momentary congratulations.

"I think I'm okay with that," you answer quietly, maybe too quiet to be heard over the rest of the room, but she raises a brow that, with her markings, actually looks like an eyebrow, and you lean back in your seat. Offer a small nod. "I'm Shepard," you tell her.

For a moment she doesn't respond. But you catch the way her lips move, whispering your name. Tasting it, letting it roll between her teeth. You shudder because you want her to say it aloud, with her back against a wall and that dress hiked up around her waist. The image alone makes your belly roil and you have to look away. Take the time to motion for another bottle, even though it dips into your pay like a sinking ship.

"Liara," she finally says, as the barkeep is sliding the whiskey your way. She doesn't elaborate, but then again you didn't either, and really, it's enough to test out and enjoy. It feels right when you whisper it against the bottle's neck.

"That's almost as beautiful as you are," you tell her, and that flush deepens so it wraps down across her throat as well. She bats her eyes and giggles in a way that's so coy you know it's a ruse. She's doing it for your benefit and you're not completely sure if you appreciate that or want what's really there, beneath her skin.

"And you're an awfully smooth talker."

"I try."

She tips her head back and you growl beneath the music because no, you're definitely sure this isn't what you want. It's nice, you think, the playfulness. But you're after something more than airheaded teasing and know she's capable of it.

You tip the bottle back and chug again, give it a moment to dull before lowering it and looking at her. She's looking at you too, and you catch how her eyes dart down to your lips, your throat. Maybe looking to see if she can find anything about the woman you are beneath the uniform you'd slipped into this evening. It makes you self conscious, suddenly. Like maybe you should've worn something more figure-appeasing.

But she doesn't say anything about what you're wearing, so you don't either. And you watch as she catches and holds your gaze and finishes off her own drink in several large gulps. It's not flattering, but then the glass is on the counter and she's glass eyed and her lips are moist and all you want to do is lean over and kiss her.

She grins. You swallow. She offers her hand and you don't think about it, just take it, and let her lead you wherever it is she wants to lead you. That could be to a dark corner or back to her place, doesn't matter. Just so long as you get to feel what those curves are like and taste whatever it was she just downed across her tongue.

You follow her like a lost puppy, out the nightclub and across the surprisingly quiet walkway that curves away and back towards the elevators. Her place it is, then, you guess.

You don't make it that far, though.

Right before the elevators she suddenly tugs you from the path and you both stumble across the synthetic grass like teenagers, her giggling and you scoffing when your boot catches a root that's overgrown the bush it comes from. She tugs you behind the barely contained plants, pulls you around and then down and somehow you're on your knees and she's pressed up against the ground beneath you.

Her hands bunch in the fabric of your uniform shirt and you laugh as she whines and you dip your head, forfeit the kiss she goes for and instead sink your teeth into the shadowed hollow between throat and shoulder. She gasps and groans in hurried doubles, rolls her hips beneath yours and makes you want to moan.

"Shepard," she gasps into your ear, fingers finding purchase through your curls. You can't remember if your hair was down or she undid it but you're grateful when she fists it and tugs, hard enough that you have to let go of her throat. She moves you so that her lips are on yours, bitter and sweet all at once, something fruity that has you reaching back behind her teeth just to find more of it.

When the kiss breaks she gasps, and your hands rise from the dirt to touch her. It doesn't matter in that moment that maybe you're ruining the fabric because all you care about is getting her out of her clothes as quickly as possible. The foreplay you'd had planned evaporates as she grabs at your hands and brings them to her chest, begging in the stillness of you to please, please, there.

You squeeze and watch her shudder and crumble and find yourself moaning along with her. Lean down to kiss her jaw and her cheek, up along her temple. She whispers your name like a prayer, until it isn't your name. Or, it's not the name you gave.

"Vicky," she begs, and you momentarily stop. And then laugh when she nearly wriggles out from beneath you in her attempt to coax you back into action. You lean down close to where you know her ear is and whisper back.

"Breaking the immersion here, Li."

She curses. She rarely curses so it has you leveling back to look at her, crooked grin but slightly wide eyed when she grabs a fistful of the front of your shirt. "Please, Victoria." She speaks it slowly, purposefully, gives you eyes like a puppy and reaches up with her free hand to trace your jugular. You swallow and know she feels it. "I don't care about the roleplay. Just take me."

The way she says it is enough to end any and all teases you might have had ready. You groan and roll your hips down against her and bask in the way she gasps at the feeling. Don't respond with words but instead let your hands slip down, down, situating your thighs apart so you can grab at the material of her dress and shimmy it up. She lifts just enough so that it bunches at her waist, and you push it up just so you can reach between her legs.

She is already wet, it soaks through her panties and makes your fingers feel cool as you rub against her. She moans your name and wriggles and you move so you can take the skin of her collar between your lips, suck hard enough that she mewls as you set a steady but too slow pace against her still clothed womanhood.

"Please," she mumbles, and it's the only word she seems to know in the next moments. Until you forfeit teasing for skin to skin, slipping under the band of her underwear and finding a home within the warmth of her. Then it's choked gasps and chopped syllables that don't have a beginning or end, don't lead to anything other than her airy gasps and tightly coiled shudders.

You don't know how long you stay like that, touching her, leaving bruised along her throat and shoulders. Long enough that your wrist starts to ache because of the angle and her breath becomes quick inhales that almost don't make it to exhales. She holds onto you like you're the only thing grounding her, like if she lets go she might just float away, and you let her because it's the sounds she makes that keep you there, too.

She coils so tight around your fingers that you can't move at one point. You share the air between you in hurried breaths that taste like each other. You use your free hand to bring her back to you, nose against nose, then inhale sharply and plummet down. Capture her bottom lip and bite down hard enough that she bleeds in the same moment that you thrust with all the strength you have left in your arm.

She screams as she breaks. You swallow it along with your own whimpers and let her ride it out, move with her, in her, against her. Hold her high and let her taste the affection across your tongue. Let her bask in her moment as long as she wants, as long as she can stand it.

And then, when the night goes quiet again and she has to push you away because it's too much, you fall to your side. She curls into you and buries her face against your chest. You wince because your nipples are aching with want but don't tell her not to, instead wrap your arms around her and let her catch her breath. Listen to her as she does and then laughs against your shoulder. You laugh, too, because this is right. This is perfect.

You don't ask her for anything. Just let her be and wonder if you have enough strength to carry her back to your apartment. Know that you probably don't. And, to be honest, you don't really mind being caught. Not when it's with her.

So you snuggle in closer and close your eyes. And let the night cradle you both as you drift off to sleep.


End file.
